“Enchanté.” He touched the brim of his beat-up hat. “Amandine, what a beautiful French name you have.”
“Thank you.” She shook open more bags while Mrs. White filled them with random loaves of bread. “What’s yours?”
“René.”
“Are you hosting a last-minute dinner party, Mr. René?” The girl nodded at all of his sacks of food.
“It’s for my family,” he explained. “There are seventeen of us, so I suppose you could say every night is a dinner party.”
“Surely you could’ve recruited a little sister or brother to help you carry all this,” Mrs. White put in.
“You know siblings,” he smiled. “Some of them would rather starve than help me.” He scooped up his packages, and Amandine grabbed the rest. “Thank you for the bread and for lending me this charming helper.”
“Please return her in one piece.” Mrs. White held the door for them as they tottered out. “I want that apron back.”
“I am sorry,” René said, leading them off the cracked pavement and onto a dirt trail. “I should have mentioned earlier. We need to head out of town a ways.”
Amandine’s arms quivered from the weight of the bags, but she was determined to carry them by herself. “I don’t mind the walk,” she said. “I didn’t get out much during the war.”
“My family had the same problem, but we’re happy to be working once again.” He managed his load with ease and peered around his groceries at the girl beside him. “So what did you do if you didn’t get out?”
“I read a lot,” she replied. “I’d sew up just about anything I could get my hands on, too. Didn’t want to fall out of practice. I’m from a family of tailors, you see.”
“Interesting. I could use a tailor.” He kicked his leg out to the side to show her where the hem of his pinstriped trousers ended high above his ankles. “Maybe we could arrange a trade. I am pretty handy. Do you need anything fixed?”
“My bike could have used a proper tune-up this morning,” she sighed helplessly. “But it’s at the bottom of the river now.”
He gave her a curious expression. It wavered for a moment between a smile and a frown as he tried to decide if she was poking fun at him. Finally, he laughed; it was the sunniest, most musical sound she had ever heard.
The more she looked at him, especially now that he was really smiling, the more enamored she became. She decided to outright ask him something she suspected and secretly hoped.
“Excuse me for being frank, but... are you a rebel?”
René’s smile faded, though he wasn’t shocked or offended. Lightly, he said, “No. Most of my family detests politics. I am a pacifist.”
“You mean you have no opinions one way or the other?” she asked.
“Oh, I have opinions. It's just not always safe to express them.”
Now it was René's turn to study Amandine. It was unusual and oftentimes dangerous to openly discuss one’s opinion of the civil conflict, but she didn’t seem like the type to make trouble. She struck him as something innocent and fragile. She was like someone’s irreplaceable treasure, hidden away and carefully guarded throughout the war, weakened but otherwise undamaged by dark times. He liked her. He felt drawn to her as one might feel towards a stray kitten, so he thought he'd take a risk and be honest.
“There are good things to be found on each side, but unfortunately there are bad things as well. The NAR gives us order, infrastructure, and food, but at a very high cost. The rebels fight for our total freedom, but it seems that whenever they show up, a lot of innocent people get hurt. What would their success bring so soon after the war? More starvation and unrest? Another Depression? Total anarchy?” Amandine mulled this over, and he went on. “I've met a few rebels in my travels. They only want to do what they feel is right. Do you know any?”
She shook her head.
René changed the subject and indicated the dusty path ahead with a thrust of his chin. “See the clearing just past the trees? That’s our camp.”
“Camp?” For some reason, Amandine imagined that he lived in a crowded farmhouse or a crumbling family plantation. “What happened to your house?”
“Believe it or not, I am not actually from Pearisville,” he teased. “I live on the road.”
“You’re homeless, too?”
“No, not exactly.” He halted mid-step. “Wait. What do mean ‘homeless, too?’”
Before she could answer, Amandine saw an enormous woman come hurtling from the treeline. She was globular, likely over four hundred pounds, and her tiny hands fluttered to keep her balance as she ran. Even from this distance, Amandine could see that she was very pretty. Her skin was smooth and pale, which contrasted dramatically with her dark hair set in perfect finger waves. Her dress was violet silk, but much like René’s, it was worn and old.
“Oh, hello,” René said as she slowed to a halt. “This is Madame Carmelita Valentina Coronado Thatch.”
“¡Finalmente!” Carmelita huffed. “You were gone for so long. I should have sent one of the Russians with you. Those two have been arguing all day, and it’s driving me crazy.” She touched her dainty wrist to her forehead and swooned, “I need to sit down.”
Carmelita plopped down in the grass and beat the air with a lace fan she pulled from her dress front, all the while staring expectantly at René.”
”Madame, this is Amandine,” he said. “She has your order.”
Almost as quick as she sat down, Carmelita was up again and reaching for the bags of chocolate. “Thank you, Amandine. You are an angel! ¡Un milagro!”
“Do you enjoy chocolates, ma’am?” Amandine asked as the woman delved into her first box. She managed to do so quickly but neatly.
“It is not for me,” she explained between pieces. “It is for my baby. He has made me crave nothing else, and I’ve been saving for weeks to get him real chocolate.”
“A baby!” Amandine exclaimed. “How wonderful! Congratulations, ma’am.”
In truth, she would have never been able to tell that Carmelita was pregnant, but to say so would have been impolite.
Carmelita gathered up all of her boxes and started back towards the trees where she came from. “Excuse me. I have overexerted myself, so I am going home to rest before I faint. It was nice to meet you, Armandita.”
René chuckled and continued along the path.
“It must be nice to have people from all over the world in your family,” Amandine said, reaching up to take some of his bags. “French, Spaniards, Russians...”
“Presently, I am the only Frenchman,” he said. “We have some from here in America, Cameroon, Cȏte d’Ivoire, Mexico, India, and China, too.”
Amandine began to understand that his family wasn’t the traditional kind. They were nomadic outcasts, picked up from all over the world. Perhaps it was a lonely way to live, never being part of a community, but René didn’t seem like the tragic type at all. She concluded that he must live quite an adventurous life.
They arrived at the camp clearing which was surrounded by a variety of colorful, beat-up vehicles. Rusted trucks had their cargo strapped down beneath heavy canvas sheets, and seven travel trailers were arranged like a ring of tiny houses, complete with clotheslines and outdoor furniture. A white tent was set back into the trees, and a temporary kitchen was put up near the central fire pit.
Carmelita collapsed into an extra-wide lawn chair under the shade of her blue trailer. Painted on the side was a caricature of herself and a person who was part man and part woman, split right down the middle. Above the characters, bold lettering read, “ALIVE, JAW-DROPPING HUMAN FREAKS! CARMELITA THE FAT-LADY AND NICK-OLETTE, THE HALF-MAN!”
René led her to the fire pit where two identical men were squatting and bickering about the best way to arrange the kindling. They abandoned their task when they spotted René.
“Russians?” Amandine asked before they reached them.
“Yes. How could you tell?”
She indicated
a nearby yellow trailer which featured two fire-juggling clowns and the words, “FROM THE MOSCOW BALLET, ACROBATIC TWINS SASHA AND PIOTR PASTERNAKOV!”
One of the Russians clapped René hard on the back and nearly knocked the paper bags out of his hands. “There is our favorite little errand-boy,” he said loudly.
“What took you so long with the food, huh?” shouted the other.
“I bet I can guess what kept him,” said the first with a double-tilt of his head in Amandine’s direction. They shot each other a conspiratorial look and broke out into wild snickering.
The pair were perfectly identical in every way, from their shaved heads and thick eyebrows that nearly hid their small blue eyes, down to the ragged clothes they wore. Only after watching them for a moment did Amandine finally notice a difference; one had a blurry, gray tattoo of a sailing galleon that showed beneath his shirt, and his brother had a leaping stag.
“You should have gone with him to help, Piotr.” Sasha pushed his brother's shoulder. “You see what trouble René gets up to when he’s on his own.”
“I was washing the pots,” Piotr snapped, striking him in return.
“No, I washed the pots! You sit there like an idiot while I always do the work!”
René saw an opportunity to escape when they started arguing and shoving each other again. He maneuvered around them, completely forgotten, and set the groceries on the scarred kitchen table.
While Amandine arranged the grocery bags, she stole a few curious glances at each trailer. The camp was cozy, tidy, and except for the three others, it appeared to be empty.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“They are probably out in the forest or in their trailers.” René dusted his hands and stretched his aching arms. “You usually won’t see anyone until they smell dinner.”
There was a pause, filled with the sounds of the forest and two simultaneous, bilingual tirades. Amandine turned to leave, but something made her want to take her time.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, René,” she said, taking small steps backwards. “I had better get on back to the bakery.”
“Please stay,” René insisted, and she leaped to his side again. “That is, please stay for a few moments longer. I have a few specific orders to deliver around camp and could use some help.” He rummaged through the shopping bags until he found what he needed. “Follow me and perhaps you can see what traveling life is like.”
He walked across the camp towards a black delivery truck which had no caricatures, only serious gold lettering that read, “ANTONIO CORONADO, MASTER OF ILLUSION.” René knocked on the side and peered into the cab, but the illusionist was nowhere to be found.
“Señor?” he called.
A loud bang ripped through the air, sending birds bursting from the trees, and René made his way further into the forest towards the sound. A mysterious, handsome gentleman in a fine tuxedo stood at the edge of a creek below, scowling at something above him.
“Antonio!” René slipped on the grass as he hurried down the slope. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Just the man I need,” Coronado mumbled, running his hand over his black, silver-streaked hair. “René, your timing is impeccable. My damn bird won’t come down from that tree.” He glared at the reluctant dove, hand outstretched, and commanded, “¡Ven aquí!”
“You can't practice with doves and gunpowder.” René rolled up his sleeves and lifted himself up into the lowest branches. “The ladies were mortified after the last time they did your laundry. Speaking of ladies, meet my new friend Amandine. She has your order.”
Coronado frowned at the girl, but she didn’t let his cold nature bother her. She presented all three packages, not knowing which was his. He chose the second one with the pharmacy label, and hefted it several times before he pocketed it.
“This does not feel sufficient,” he complained.
René leapt down, white dove in hand. “The medicine was at the pharmacy, but the chemicals you wanted are still controlled substances. I get a lot of unwanted attention when I ask for them, you know.” He handed the bird to Coronado, and it vanished with a flourish from its master. “I suppose the NAR is worried about rebels making bombs.”
“I am not making bombs.” Coronado headed back up the hill, and the other two turned to follow. “I am working on something for the festival. I want a new display that will put people on the edge of their seats.”
“It makes sense now,” Amandine chimed in. “You're all with a circus!”
Her comment made Coronado freeze. He whirled on her and leaned in so close that she could smell wine and sulfur on him.
“I don’t work for a circus, señorita,” he growled. “I am not some card-flicking magician. I am a master of illusion! What I do could keep you up at night, wondering how in the name of heaven I have achieved the impossible. I was a headlining act across Europe! I performed for kings and sold-out crowds!”
“Easy, Antonio.” René wedged himself between them. “I never told her who we are. Who you are. I am sure she got that idea from the Russians.”
He huffed and stormed back towards his truck, coat tails fluttering behind him. “Have they started dinner yet?”
“If they'll ever stop fighting,” René rolled his eyes.
Coronado cast the back doors of his truck open wide, revealing shelves upon shelves of miscellaneous boxes and multicolored glass bottles that tinkled together when he climbed inside. It resembled a cluttered little apothecary with a cot and trunk squeezed into the back corner. He tossed out two empty birdcages to René.
“Clean these, won’t you?”
“Certainly.” René didn’t clean them so much as he shook them out and scraped out the soiled newspaper lining with a stick.
Once he’d put his parcel away, the illusionist emerged from his truck again with a palmful of change. The young man passed the cages back and accepted his tip from Coronado with a nod of thanks.
René divided the change in half and gave Amandine a share before continuing on to the white tent at the head of the camp. As they passed the fire again, she noticed the Russians had started chopping vegetables but decided to settle their argument with a game of five-finger fillet instead.
They stopped at the tent’s red carpet door, and René ran his hand across the copper wind chime that hung outside.
“Marmi?” he called. “I'm back.”
“Come in, René,” said a deep voice from within. “We’re all finished here.”
Suddenly the door whipped open, and a furious little woman blocked the way. “No! You can’t come in until I’m done!” She smeared the makeup that pooled beneath her wet pear-green eyes, and she sized up Amandine. “Who's the fuddy-duddy?” Without waiting for a response, she disappeared back inside.
“Is that Marmi?” Amandine whispered. After her last introduction, she didn’t want to accidentally offend anybody again.
“That’s Sangria Groviglio, our contortionist.” René held the heavy oriental rug aside and ushered her in. “This is Marmi.”
If Amandine imagined René as a gypsy prince, then there was no doubt that Marmi was the queen. Wearing many colorful robes, her cocoa skin was ornamented with a hundred chains, beads, and faux gems from her headscarf to her bare feet. She was lounging in a folding chair with a smoldering pipe in hand, holding an air of wisdom and authority, though her age was difficult to guess.
Amandine marveled at her exotic beauty and wondered if her facial piercings hurt very much.
Sangria paced the dusty carpet floor. She was petite, lean, muscular as a cat, and curiously, she seemed to be dressed in only her underwear. “Why can’t I be in the festival show?” she demanded, completely ignoring Amandine and René’s presence.
Marmi played with the smoke that floated from her pipe and spoke in a peculiar English accent. “I never said you couldn’t. You have yet to show me how your act can be incorporated into it. I don’t see anything new, Sangria. You will remain a freak-a
ct until you can either cooperate with the others or show me something new.”
Sangria let out a sound between a snarl and a sob. René put a hand on her bare shoulder, but she promptly shrugged him off.
“Don't touch me, you moron!”
He backed off respectfully and held out her parcel that contained several glossy fashion magazines. Sangria snatched them up and stormed out of the tent.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Marmi snapped. “René isn’t your personal slave. Pay him what he’s due.”
Sangria yanked her purse out of the front of her corset. She threw several coins at him and fled the tent with her hands over her face. “I’m not a freak,” she muttered miserably. “I should be the star.”
They listened to her light footsteps retreat before Marmi released a heavy sigh. “I apologize.” She rubbed her temples, which sent stacks of bangles sliding down her slender arm. “Sangria ought to know how to behave herself when we have guests.”
“This is Amandine.” René made introductions again while he picked up the change from the dirt. “She works at the bakery and helped me carry everything back.”
“A pleasure, ma’am.” Amandine felt it necessary to curtsy in Marmi’s imposing presence.
“Welcome, child.” The matriarch showed a gold tooth at the back of her soft, white smile. “I am Madame Marmi. I hope René tipped you for your assistance.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered.
“Very good. Please bring me my order.”
René handed her a brown paper sack that had been stamped with the name of a tobacconist. Amandine placed it on the folding table at Marmi’s side, all the while feeling the strangely heavy weight of the matriarch’s gaze.
“I sense something about you, child. You seem... uprooted. You don't live here.” Marmi gestured in the general direction of Pearisville.
“No, ma’am,” she answered politely. “Just passing through.”
“I see.” Marmi continued to study her with narrowed, yellow eyes. “But you're traveling alone. You don't even have any siblings.”
Amandine wondered how Marmi could have possibly known that. “No, ma’am. I don’t have anyone except for my mother anymore, and she’s all the way up in Nieuwestad.”
Threadbare- The Traveling Show Page 4